To My Class: On Certain Fruits and Flowers Sent Me in Sickness

If spicy-fringed pinks that blush and pale With passions of perfume, —if violets blue That hint of heaven with odor more than hue, — If perfect roses, each a holy Grail Wherefrom the blood of beauty doth exhale Grave raptures round, —if leaves of green as new As those fresh chaplets wove in dawn and dew By Emily when down the Athenian vale She paced, to do observance to the May, Nor dreamed of Arcite nor of Palamon, — If fruits that riped in some more riotous play Of wind and beam that stirs our temperate sun, — If these the products be of love and pain, Oft may I suffer, and you love, again.